Fleeting Images
by Red Caerdin
Summary: The year is 1570; the 14th Shogunate, Ashikage Yoshiteru, has been assasinated. Two years after the defeat of Naraku and Inuyasha's assumed death, the world seems much the same. Appearances, fragile as starlight, are never what they seem. Sess/Kag. Canon


**Author**: Lucielle / Caerdin of Red

**Story Setting**: Two years after the defeat of Naraku.  
Spoilers are extremely possible.  
Late Muromachi period - Sengoku Judai. Japan. 1570.

**Primary Genre**[s]: _Historical_. Adventure/Mystery. _Romance_. Action. _Friendship/Humor_. Angst.

**Definite Pairings**: Eventual Sesshoumaru/Kagome ; Miroku/Sango ; Others - historical pairings and OCs for plot purposes ; ECT.

"_Let's take a better look,  
beyond a story book,  
and learn our souls are all we own,  
before we turn to stone..._"  
- Ingrid Michaelson ;  
Turn To Stone

**Welcome. Enjoy.**

**{ Prologue: Fleeting Images }  
**

The seasons had changed, bringing with it fall's wispy negligence. A fumbling breeze sent dead, crackling leaves into a tumultuous whirlwind. Their colors were a living kaleidoscope of multiple hues and shapes. The air was fragrant and dry and devoid of spring's crisp taste.

Shredded leaves skittered down a crusty dirt road, now empty of passing merchants and travelers as night approached. These leaves, careless and vivid, paid tribute to the end of fall as they danced: brief moments of beauty to fill the lackluster trail. Moisture saturated the playful thermals overhead as they preceded the somber wrath of an oncoming storm.

A blisteringly orange and crimson sky was partially veiled by swaths of shapeless, violet clouds to the west. Flecks of cerise smoldered along the edges of the sumptuous clouds like glimpses of glittering salmon-scales beneath a heavy river current. Dashes of sunlight smattered along the clouds' underbellies, richly embellishing them with gold and paler smears of silver. Dusk was an impending presence against far off mountaintops as their white-caps smoldered gray in the twilight.

Fragile blues crept along the farthest corners of the horizon. A thick, unhindered line of trees enshrouded the landscape. Engulfing the land in vast shadows and creeping mists, the clouds crawled onwards. The creatures living among the trees were aware of stars puttering into life in the far beyond. The stars flailed softly behind the rapidly approaching storm, their soft lamentations unheard behind unearthly grumbles.

The flash and wail of the planet's fury hid the star songs from mortal ears; even now, winds flexed against their bindings, fluctuating here and there as a greater power advanced. As the hour drew late and the day came to an end, spans of lifeless foliage whirled across the wide backdrop of the oncoming autumn storm.

Modern artists would ruminate in the future, thinking about these colorful waltzes of leaves. Vainly trying to encapsulate five hundred years worth of captivating beauty, they would pour their hearts and souls onto one empty canvas. Blank thoughts and crusted riverbeds: how the two ages, Feudal and present day, would ever conjoin so thoroughly as it once had was a mystery and a question that might very well never be answered. There was probably no chance at all; the passage between times was closed, and so one era was barred from the other. There would be no more miracles. What had once been a magical world of adventure and danger and romance was now but another home.

A place to live. A place to die.

The magic was gone and with it all sense of hope for one individual. Living in a place and time where the comfort of a belonging feeling was absent - by birth, or in any other sense - was a bizarre twist of fate, but one that had to be resigned to. Despite all tries at rationality, there still remained a mystery, a question, and a failing sense of hope.

For now, with all certainty, winter was coming.

"Shippou? Why don't you run along ahead of me? You can tell Kaede-baasan that I will return before the storm breaks."

The words were spoken with great care, as if the tumbling atmosphere might shatter if the volume of her voice were any higher. Ebony locks flicked and twined about a pale, slender form, each tress stippled with the same variety of vibrant, glowing lights as the ones spilling across the horizon.

A short distance away a smaller, younger individual gathering what appeared to be the last blossoms of fall, paused. His rich, full tail twitched eagerly; and from his clutching fists a few tufts of herbal vegetation poked out, making his palms itch slightly. Beneath his dark orange hair, inquisitive jade eyes peered out towards the silhouette of the one who had spoken. Although his jaw jutted out stubbornly, an understanding glimmer flickered amongst his childish features. With a quiet, private sigh, the young kitsune youkai nimbly leaped upwards and perched on the edge of an old, decaying well.

"Okay. But don't stay out here too long. There're still lots of evil demons around, even though..." Shippou trailed off. He'd meant to add, 'even though Naraku's no longer around,' but for some reason his adoptive mother's opaque gaze stilled his tongue. The wind pulling strands of his burnt orange hair loose from its snug ponytail, Shippou quickly handed the silent female his latest herb findings. Biding a farewell, he hopped off down the pathway towards the village located at its end.

From her perch on the edge of the dank, crumbling well, Higarashi Kagome waved after her departing son. As his cherubic form disappeared into the melding, melting shadows, her hand fell listlessly back into her lap. There it lay, unmoving among the red of her plain hakama, a blatant mark of her miko heritage. Her brows furrowed, pinching a fine and troubled line between them. Further below, a set of fragile, curving lashes trembled.

Little had changed about her in the last three years. Her hair was still an untidy mass of black, coiled up into a large bun just above the nape of her neck and held there by a single, melancholy ribbon. Her eyes, downcast for the moment, were forever a mixture of blue and gray as they had been since the day she'd been born. Her limbs were long and capable. Physically, she was still the same girl that had stumbled into the lands of Feudal Japan four years ago, albeit maturity had finally blossomed along her frame and nature. She'd lost most of her baby fat after long years of trekking through the far reaches of Japan. She had also become strong and fit, and resilient against the harsh realities of a non-modern economy. By human standards, especially in the Sengoku Jidai era, Kagome was an exquisite peculiarity.

It was only her heart that had yet to find a way to ward off the intensity of pain, the sharpness of grief, the bitterness of regret.

The sun was setting. Each passing shade of color - azure, gold, magenta, flecks of silver and peach - flitted like tiny sparkles across the surface of her somber, steady optics. For all the liveliness and fury of the oncoming tempest, the young woman sat primly, languidly, gazing into the distance without focus or worry.

Already, the sound of rain trembled in the hollow chambers of her ears. Thunder grumbled and lightning spat distastefully from the belly of the surmounting bank of clouds. The scent of wet dirt wafted on a strong, cool breeze. Inhaling, her mind filled with nostalgic pictures. Memories of her friends and herself observing similar storms: storms of rain, storms of war, storms of fire, storms of hatred and goodwill. She recalled how she would always be accompanied by a red-wearing half breed, his childish sneer a clear indication that he didn't see the romantic appeal of storm-watching.

A rattling breath stirred, lifting the gentle rise of her chest as she sighed. Around the pale flute of her throat she wore a worn and battered necklace made of prayer beads and demon fangs. Old as it was, it was only natural that the beads were deteriorating; the canine teeth, however, were still pearly white and sharp as they had ever been. Kagome, the pads of her fingers idly straying over the necklace, struggled against a sudden lump in her throat.

Gathering up a woven basket at her feet, she rose, careful not to spill the medicinal herbs as she did. Their scent was pungent and a familiar comfort. Passing a hand over her unruly mass of dark hair, Kagome began down the path her adopted son had taken. Her stride was slow and carelessly filled with newly learned womanly grace. She was soon no longer able to look back and see the desolate sight of the Bone Eater's well. Cold, her slim shoulders hunched against a sudden chill as the daylight faded to a gray-bronze tinge.

Frigid gales brushed along the land, lifting stray leaves and other multihued tidbits, tossing them away into the brisk sunset. The cliffs and mountains that rose in the distance stood silently, facing the storm with stony countenances. All signs pointed towards a long winter ahead.

From one low, outreaching stretch of dirt and rock, high above the small village where the young miko lived - the foreigner from a distant land - the wind snatched at bits of silk and made it snap in its frenzy. Glimpses of white were stark against the swirling clouds; despite this, the armored figure was but a swatch of shadow. Standing straight and tall, much like the boulders protruding out from the cliff-side, he stared downwards. Pale lips pulled into a tiny, wondering scowl as he watched the young woman.

As the priestess disappeared into the darkness, the figure silently turned and slipped out of sight. The sky above rumbled, uneasily, as if it too could sense ruthlessness in the atmosphere.

-------------------

"Kagome-chan, would ye like more?"

Hunched over besides a crackling fireside, Kaede indicated to the large pot keeping warm over the flames. Her form, aged and possessing the mystic aura of wisdom that women of her years tended to carry, sat half-turned towards the pot. Where she sat served a dual-purpose: to keep her warm during the evening hours and to allow her easy access to the stew that boiled within the heavy, thick-lipped crock.

Weary eyelids rose, revealing politely appreciative blue orbs. A little smile helped to sweeten Kagome's features; lost in her thoughts, her face had been drawn tight with apprehension and something more, something that waged between nostalgia and torment. "Iie, Kaede-baasan. I'm full. How are you doing Shippou...? Hm?" Upon glancing towards the corner Shippou had been sitting - and eating - in, Kagome couldn't restrain a light, exasperated laugh when her gaze fell onto the small fox youkai, who seemed to be fast asleep, curled up around his bowl. A goofy grin was drawn across his face, giving off the instantaneous idea that he was having a good dream.

Rising from her seat, Kagome brushed off the backside of her red hakama and then shuffled towards Shippou, her bare feet shush-shushing across the wooden floor. Kneeling, she gently extracted the clay bowl from between Shippou's clawed fingertips. A small mutter left his lips, but otherwise the fox child remained asleep, opting instead to wrap his hands around a bit of Kagome's sleeve. As she lifted him up, a faint fondness creased the corners of Kagome's eyes: how Shippou had remained so innocent throughout the long ordeal - dealing with the death of his parents, Naraku and the evil of Naraku's spawn - was beyond her. Instead, there was a resounding sense of gratefulness, one that was occasionally stabbed through by envy. She, too, had once been so chaste of mind and easy with smiles.

With the young kitsune held in the crook of her arm, Kagome moved beyond the fireside to settle him onto his bedding, which he had shared with her as long as they'd been together

"Oh, Shippou... all tuckered out from playing..."

Faint words, whimsical. A gentle cadence of affection flickered into Kagome's voice; however, the tender tone was short lived. Kneeling on the floor besides Shippou's curled form, a lone hand stroked his fiery locks, maternally, longingly. The fire crackled and popped, drawing her out of her reverie. Kagome stood up and tugged her white kimono top tighter around herself. "I'll see to the firewood, Kaede-baasan." She smiled politely as Kaede glanced up at her, nodding as she stirred the remaining stew with a sure, gnarled hand. "Aye, Kagome-chan. Thine umbrella stands against the wall outside. Take care: the weather be foul this evening..."

"Yes, of course..."

Outside, fog hung damply in the surrounding forestry, creating a hazy wall through which only the darkest of shadows could be seen. Water flooded the dirt pathways passing through the villages, furrowing deep, sinking crags into the mud. Her geta slugged heavily through the muck. The suction gave her reason to concentrate on her feet and she watched as the puddles gathered between quiet, neighboring homes after each careful step.

Kagome rounded a shed designed to store Kaede's summer stock of herbs during the long winter months. Behind, a pile of scraps and splintered logs lay askew. Sighing briefly, she knelt to tidy the stock of wood, her umbrella rolling to one side as she worked. Rain pelted the sheltering overhang and kept her relatively dry: the wind, however, was harsh and stung against her cheeks. Gathering several hefty boughs into a pile, she strung them together with a rough woven twine from a basket set aside, filled with a number of physical twin cords.

Firewood beneath the crook of one arm, she glanced around for her umbrella. Dark, arched brows knitted when she couldn't find it. Guessing that the wind had swept it out of sight, she toed the edge of the shelter, peering out vainly into the downpour. If the wood got wet, it would be near impossible to get it started...

Footsteps interrupted her search. Soft, long, sweeping steps.

Dread ushered in a dose of fear when the tiny hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She felt her breath catch as a second thread of familiarity dove into her. A power was seeping into the air, blossoming like a thick, heavy blanket. It made her want to choke; her lungs seared as she tried to breathe properly. Sniffing, using her empty hand to push at sweep of bangs across her forehead, Kagome drew herself up and straightened her shoulders. Stress fractured her calm and her chest felt constricted.

She turned. Lifting her gaze, she met his hard gold stare.

In one clawed hand... her umbrella.

"Sesshoumaru."

{Edited 7/29/09}

**Inuyasha belongs to Rumiko and her wonderful imagination. Thank you for reading. I apologize for the style-changes throughout, as this was edited after being written over a year ago. **


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